going into Paris, a seat in mine. I was going in, and was extremely glad
of his company. He came with me to my hotel; we went up to my rooms. I
was surprised to see a man seated in an easy chair, with his back
towards us, reading a newspaper. He rose. It was the Count de St. Alyre,
his gold spectacles on his nose; his black wig, in oily curls, lying
close to his narrow head, and showing like carved ebony over a repulsive
visage of boxwood. His black muffler had been pulled down. His. right
arm was in a sling. I don't know whether there was anything unusual in
his countenance that day, or whether it was but the effect of prejudice
arising from all I had heard in my mysterious interview in his park, but
I thought his countenance was more strikingly forbidding than I had seen
it before.

I was not callous enough in the ways of sin to meet this man, injured at
least in intent, thus suddenly, without a momentary disturbance.

He smiled.

"I called, Monsieur Beckett, in the hope of finding you here," he
croaked, "and I meditated, I fear, taking a great liberty, but my friend
the Marquis d'Harmonville, on whom I have perhaps some claim, will
perhaps give me the assistance I require so much."

"With great pleasure," said the Marquis, "but not till after six
o'clock. I must go this moment to a meeting of three or four people whom
I cannot disappoint, and I know, perfectly, we cannot break up earlier."

"What am I to do?" exclaimed the Count, "an hour would have done it all.
Was ever _contretemps_ so unlucky?"